


Volpe e Pantera

by thumbipeach



Category: Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, SIMP!Kieran, Spice, Wow I am just ON A ROLL with the whack ass shit this week huh, absolutely shameless, coriander but amped up, look let’s just say this is practice spice and move on, this is NOT SMUT FULL DISCLAIMER, this was a ””””””””writing exercise”””””””””, you will never find smut from me ladies and gentlemen of the jury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach
Summary: They give, they take, they fight, they want, they need.It is only the way of humans; and this fox and panther are more human than anything.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Comments: 48
Kudos: 93





	1. Bisogno

**Author's Note:**

> Need.

It’s cold.

It _is_ high November, and while snow doesn’t exactly coat the flowerbuds yet, the frost announces its precipitant return in the air, in the way their breaths collect in hurried wisps around them, in the way she has to clutch her arms tighter. Kieran fumbles with the keys, unlocks the door to the estate in fingers rosy with chill, and perhaps _that’s_ why she does it.

Kieran’s hands are always, always warm, no matter what. 

She remembers late nights in winter when he’d take her fingers in his and it would be alight like a warm blaze; she remembers hot days in the summer when he’d tease his hand down the small of her back, and she’d have to laugh and twist away, because his palms would worry a burn on her skin. 

Perhaps _that’s_ why she does it. Not necessarily because of how he’d looked in his suit at the party, dappled in blue light and fabric perfectly pressed, his collar ruffled around his bones, rendering him the perfect vision she always knew him to be. 

Not necessarily because of the way he’d held her hip gently to him when she’d gone over to join him, the way he’d bent and whispered something in her ear and she’d felt gooseflesh rise in the wake of his low, dark voice, deep and timberous.

Not necessarily because of the low stirring in her belly when he’d pulled back.

No, it’s because it’s high November, they’re back from a party they’d had to walk from, and the gauzy strips of her dress do nothing to abate the searing chill, and it is cold, she is cold, and he is always warm, and she wants to feel his hands on her so very badly.

Yes, perhaps _that’s_ why, once the door has clicked shut, he barely has time to gasp out her name before she has him pressed him against the door, her hands seeking out his skin. She can feel it when he overcomes his momentary shock, taking her waist in his broad fingers and bringing her flush against him. 

She tilts her head and kisses him desperately, like she has not seen him in eons, and he matches her fury, her fire, because he has never denied her anything. Because he doesn’t dare stop her, not when her hands and mouth are so skilled, not when they know him so well, know that the spot behind his ear is sensitive, know that if she pulls back to look at him with her honey eyes and a sly, coy smile, he’ll be undone. He’d have her right there if she was going to be that difficult. 

But she doesn’t pull back; she keeps going. He feels his back hit mahogany as Lauren moves further, her body twined with his and lips searing trails on his eyelids, his cheeks, the corner of his lips and finally, where he wants her, right at his lips. She pays him due attention before she dips lower, at his jaw and shifting throat, and he wraps a hand around her waist and presses, hard, feeling her whimper, because it is so cold and he is so, very warm.

He tilts his head back with a groan, lets her lave kisses at his neck, lets her have her way with him as the blue fabric of her dress bunches in his fingers, like a lacy sky captured in broad palms. 

“Any reason for this, _mon amour?”_ He gasps as she bites down on his collar, leaving a burning mark as his hands roam her skin. She pulls back infinitesimally, enough for her breath to ghost over his skin and make him shiver, and raises her brows.

_“No.”_ She says, and her voice is so damaging, so infectious, that he can’t help but sigh in defeat, pull her closer and kiss her senseless. 

The move like this, through silent storms and raging waters, and there is nothing new in their need for each other. It’s always all consuming, all passion and desire and sharp teeth, because for two people from seperate worlds, their goals have always been the same. They have always needed something, and taken without remorse.

It’s only when Lauren’s hands travel lower, down the tight, oppressive fabric of his suit and ghosting over the ridges at his stomach, the faint muscle and the taut inhibition, only when her fingers tease the clasps of his belt and metallic twang resonates throughout the hall, when he jolts back from his haze of want, that the vixen pushes herself off of him, relents her chase in favor of offering herself for the hunt.

He watches in rapture as she wipes a trail of lipstick off her kiss bitten lips, red ink smearing as she breathes heavily, and really, she is being so difficult, and he’d like nothing more than to have her absolutely breathless, so she wouldn’t look at him like that, like she is so sure of what she does to him. She smiles, leaving him panting and drunk against the doorway, and turns on her heels, making for the stairs.

He can only look on as the blue fabric sways about her hips, the way her red hair tumbles as she loosens it halfway up, turning back over her shoulder to shoot him a challenging smile, lips and eyes and nose pink with the pleasurable flush of arousal. He only hesitates for a moment before he’s off after her, her giggles echoing off the estate walls as she runs, his low laughter bouncing in the cavernous house as he darts up the steps, as she remains out of reach.

He’s on her heels dutifully, chasing after the blue train of her dress and she sprints to their room, her laughter infectious and euphoric. She reaches the doorknob, her shaking fingers fumbling in mirth, but even though he gave her space, he was always too quick for her, always fast and hard and unyielding. Always a predator who caught his prey, took what he so needed.

He doesn’t allow her to continue.

Quickly grasping her waist from behind, he pries her from the knob, and with a low growl has her pressed against the wall. Her back arches at the sensation, and he swallows her belligerent laughter with more kisses, his hands roving over her skin, trapping her against his body, like it was meant to be, like puzzle pieces, locked in destined synchrony. 

_“No.”_ He throws her utterance back, his voice husky and deep, and she can’t suppress a shiver, couldn’t hide what he does to her if she tried. 

She laughs joyously against his mouth, gasping as his hands begin to unhook the eyelets of her corset, begin to pull the gossamer off of her skin. It’s a tiring process, this, but she hears no complaints, only harried breathing and the smile he holds against the base of her throat. His hands, they are still so warm.

He is warm, and he does give to her, everything she could ever want; but he also wants, needs, takes all of her and leaves her wishing he’d take more.

Because when he kneels in front of her like he’s worshiping a goddess, presses his lips to her quivering stomach, she wishes he’d take more.

And when she has to repeat a mantra of his name in order to keep afloat, has to lose herself in the way he touches her, like she is a most precious painting, like she is the only thing in the world worth his utmost reverence—she wishes he’d take more.

And when he rises, smiles that damaging smirk of his and wipes off his lips in a parody of the way she did, she must take matters into her own hands and take herself, take the bits of him he offers to her, which is everything at once and nothing at all.

She pulls him by the collar, her hands finding purchase at his chest, his at her hips, and she hums into the kiss, pants a steady tune when he moves his warm hands lower. He moves with intent, hitching a long leg around his hip, hoisting her back against the wall and laughing as his palms worry divots at her thighs.

“No knives, officer?” He asks, breath at her ear as she frantically works his clothes off of him, the fabric offending, hiding his skin from her touch.

“Didn’t feel I’d need it tonight.” She retorts back, voice somehow steady even as he envelops her, as he consumes, takes, and she is too far gone to care what he wishes from her. She’d do whatever it was again just so he could hold her like this a thousand more times, just so he’d be with her like this again, just so his hands would never stop rucking up her dress, bruising her hips.

“Why—did you plan this, darling?” He smiles against her hair as he pulls her to his chest, and through a delighted whimper she answers him, her mouth moving against the skin of his chest, against the solid warmth of her husband, of Kieran.

_“Perhaps I did.”_

That does it, and as he stifles a low, possessive growl into her shoulder she throws back her head, lost in her rapture, the warmth of him surrounding her—him, him, him.

Her back arches against the wall, wanting to be as close to him as possible, and he takes her hips in his broad, skilled hands and gives her what she wants. She’s babbling, incoherent, her nose buried in his shifting collar, poppies and mint and a soft hint of cologne flooding her nose, making her feel completely at ease, completely home, even when her body is begging, desperate.

_“Kieran. Please. Please—“_ her voice breaks, and he nods slowly, pulling back to look her in the eyes, his own clouded with arousal, the heady scent of honey and a forest fire. 

She sees his need, matches it with her own, and when they are one, when they are sated, all she can do to hide the delighted cry, the relieved sigh, is kiss him as hard as she possibly can. 

When they both fall back, panting, their skin flushed, he only laughs. She’s still propped up against the wall, skirt falling in blue pools over hips marred with his fingerprints, evidence of his need, his existence. She laughs too—high, joyful giggles that burst from her chest. She ghosts her fingertips over her collarbone, fingers the loose straps of her dress and feels the red marks on her shoulders, satisfied, a cat to its cream. 

He makes a shoddy attempt at righting his disheveled appearance, but ultimately leaves his shirt unbuttoned, muscles shifting as he combs a hand through his hair, undoing the ribbon and letting dark tendrils fall about his shoulders, where purple spots mark where she’d decided to possess him fully.

_“What—“_ he laughs, still breathless—“was that for?”

She raises her brows, running a thumb across his lower lip, grinning triumphantly at where her lipstick is smeared across the corner of his lips in a blur of smoky crimson.

“Are you complaining?” 

He draws nearer, pecking her lips lightly before the kiss becomes deeper, one supposed to be chaste, now long and slow. She barely has time to whine as he pulls away before he answers her, his warm palms cupping her jaw, playing with the little opals still in her ears.

_“Never, mon cœur.”_

She hums, pressing a kiss to his sternum before pulling back again, trailing sinful fingers down his abdomen before drumming them at his hip. She turns, sashays into their bedroom, and when she tosses her head one final time to look over her shoulder, she finds that his dazed, punch-drunk look sends pleasurable shocks up her spine. 

She shrugs.

“I was cold.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kfshsbsjsjsksmssksjsosjssj
> 
> Once again thank you to intheKnickofTime and Ex_Nihilo for putting up with my late night spicy bullshit I love you both. Here have this again:
> 
> Wanted to see how far I could go without full on clowning myself. Hope I still managed to keep this somewhat tasteful,,,,but if not I completely understand and I will be retreating to my jail cell accordingly.
> 
> There’s another part to this I might post it if I get enough incentive
> 
> Comments/kudos are my light, my joy, my sky <3 
> 
> -thumbipeach


	2. Volere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Want.

Lazy Sunday mornings such as this, they don’t seem to come often for the Sinclair-Whites. 

Work, work, work until the sun hides itself from their view. Solace comes rarely, in pockets, in the spaces of time one must be patient and reverent enough to capture. It comes in the bright spools of a late sunrise, when the sanctuary of their bedroom is cast in desaturated orange and yellow, when birdsong trickles through the slit of an open window, when cool scents waft through the trees outside.

When Kieran opens his eyes, his first sight is of their bedside table, and the flowers thriving in abundance in the vase he’d put in yesterday, while Lauren had been toiling. 

Paperwork, even on a Saturday it seemed, for the Chief of Police. 

They’d gone to bed together, their fingers laced and legs twined, his head nestled to her chest and her hands at his heart, but truly, it had felt like the day had been wasted, the comfort of a day off laced with the stress of the work week.

With a groan, he rolled over, hands searching for his wife, feeling the little dip in the sheets where she lay curled in on herself.

Kieran turned to face her, to watch as her lashes fluttered in a light sleep, the way her chest rose and fell steadily with her soft breaths. Her red hair spilled over the white sheets, painting rivers of scarlet backlit by blushing gold, the faint curve of her cheeks dimpled under where it was pressed to the pillow, and as his eyes wandered lower, to the swells of her hips hidden under the blankets and the shift of her legs, he almost felt yearning, a searing emotion for quiet, for peace, to simply be beside her and exist there without scrutiny.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, but when she stirs, when her eyes open to meet his, it feels like a jolt, like a snap to his spine. Because there is one thing that Kieran Sinclair-White has never been able to capture in time—the one pocket he will never be patient enough to wait for—and that is Lauren Sinclair-White’s eyes in the cool light of morning, their affecting clarity, their damaging sway, the way they are the one thing he will allow himself to fall for.

“Good morning, _mon cœur.”_ He says, his voice raspy, hoarse with sleep. 

She takes a little while to register his words, but when she does she smiles slowly, languidly, and the gentle slope of her inviting lips _does_ something to him, it does, like it always will. 

She notices, because she is perceptive and calculating, because she knows her husband, has been with him enough to know when and what he wants. And so, with a little sigh, the sound of which settles in his bones and makes him feel woozy, she leans forward, the sheets rustling, and kisses him softly.

It’s nothing that can be called chaste, nothing that can be called simple. Without even knowing how, it becomes deep, low, searching. The feeling of her against him, the feeling of her face in his palms and her soft skin on his rough, wanting expanse, is enough to uncork the stopper, to unclasp the lock to the cage, to allow the predator into the woods.

He lets his eyes darken, lets his grip tighten ever so gently.

She pulls back, her eyes still on his, a taunting mix of honey and whiskey that he would lovingly get drunk off of every night if she would only ask, and whispers a sweet song in his ear. 

“Good morning, _mon bonheur.”_ She says, her voice soft, like crystals and sweet nectar. 

He looks at her only a moment before surging forward again, delving back in, kissing her with a searing quality that steals her breath away. He relishes in the little moan that leaves her lips, as she tilts her head back and allows him to play her in delicious hurt.

They lose themselves, then. It’s surprising, how easy it is to do, how even after weeks they find each other, colliding in a fierce storm. She shifts closer, and as she does so the sheets fall off of her in waves and drapes of ivory, pooling off her milky white skin and gifting more to his touch. Her hands find the wispy mess of his hair, tangling the strands and clutching him close to her, keeping him rooted while she kisses him senseless, all inhibitions gone in the haze of morning.

He grips her waist, begins to pull her on top of him, but she separates briefly, rearing back to look at him as he growls in displeasure. His pupils are blown, his hair tousled and falling about his head on the pillows like a raven’s halo, and she is at least prideful of how she can make him so. 

She is no artist—but she can ruin what she has created, she can ruin what she treasures; she can ruin Kieran.

“What day is it today?” She asks, panting. His eyes flicker in thought before smiling, reassuring her.

“It’s Sunday—we don’t have anywhere to be,” he replies, teeth bared in an impish grin.

His statement brightens her, and she laughs in delight. Leaping upward, she throws a leg over his hips and settles down on top of him, just shy of where he’d like to place her, and he hisses in some form of delicious agony. She straddles him wantonly, her hands trailing up his chest and his arms, her lips finding caches of lithe muscle and paying homage to them, and he groans as his own palms find the soft silk of her nightgown, rippling about her thighs and catching in his fingertips. 

_“Good.”_ She whispers at his throat, and he is gone, really, he will die here—and he’d welcome that death like he’d welcome a lover into his bed, lose himself to that the way he loses himself to her, her, to his wife, to Lauren.

With a fervor that sends a thrill down his stomach and forces a curse to his lips, she pins his wrists to the pillows, dips her head and rolls her hips against his, and he has to muffle a delighted hiss into the plush press of her lips, has to resist the urge to tug her down himself and have his way with her. But she looks so content to cage him here, the pressure on his pulse point all too welcome, so he allows it, allows her whatever indulgence she may wish with him, because he is hers, he is hers.

But that does not mean he does not have his own desires. 

He wants to rip her nightgown off at the seams, run his hands down her taut stomach and feel her shiver just for him, wants her to gasp and cry and shudder and shout his name, wants her to want him.

And want him she does—because they are the same, they have always wanted the same things, acted upon their desires, and with each other they are no different, even in the fractal of morning sunlight where they twine themselves like halves of a duet.

She places her hands over his own, moves them where she wants to be touched. As they smooth over the curves and dips of her waist, lift up the hem of her nightgown before retreating upwards and pulling the collar down to kiss the swell of her chest, she hums in contentment, her own fingers working at the band of his cotton pants, wanting more, taking. He’d let her take all of him if he could, if she wanted.

He has to marvel, still, that even when she moves on top of him, even when her mouth is swollen with kisses and parted in pleasure, even when her hair tumbles about her bare shoulders and falls over his face like a curtain, even when she is derelict and ruined with his ministrations, wrecked and desperate beyond belief—she is still hopelessly, irreparably beautiful. 

The morning light still shines and coats her in swathes of white and yellow, and as she draws back to kiss him harder, faster, more desperate in her want, the glow seems to swell, and he is drowning, drowning in her and her honey eyes and the way she feels on top of him, how he loves his wife so.

And he supposes she is no different. 

He knows that when she cards her fingers through his hair, brushes it all back so she can smile at him lazily, kiss drunk and still searching, it is with some kind of reverence that is lost to him, one that belongs to only her. 

That when she runs her palms down tense and shifting muscle, feeling the hard planes of his chest with eager enthusiasm, she thinks he is beautiful too. 

That when she shifts back, running her hands up his arms, taking one palm from where it had been clasping her hip and kissing his knuckles, looking him dead in the eyes and smiling lazily, he knows it is because she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

Then, she moves herself harder, her hips blazing and her touch searing, and he can’t do anything but pray, her name on his lips like a mantra, like a chant he would never cease. She takes from him, and his mind goes blank with the way he wants her. Her mouth curves in a perfect ‘o,’ another joyful sigh escapes from her lips, and he wishes he could place that picture on paper and not have it render inadequate.

With a cry of his name, the syllables delicious on her tongue, and a muffled groan of hers, that is the way they drown together. When one goes down, the other too—because that is the intense game of desire, of want, of want.

Later, when they’re lying together, toe to toe and heart to heart as they would have been in a fiercer war, she places a palm over the clockwork thumping in his chest, presses a kiss to the underside of his sharp jaw, she whispers it in his ear, light from the rising sun coalescing in waves, like a photograph waiting to be lost.

_“I love you.”_

And because he is only fair, because he cannot stand to stay silent, not when she wants him so, he leans down, nips at her earlobe playfully before kissing her deeply, and gives her a cadence in return.

_“I love you too.”_

Yes, lazy Sunday mornings are rare; but perhaps it is their scarcity that renders it all the more treasured.

To be appeased, one must first learn to want. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight here you go my children ✨
> 
> We’ll be back to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.
> 
> Comments/kudos are my light, my joy, my whole heart <3 thanks for tolerating this y’all the reception on Biso was honestly,,flattering kmvjfshs
> 
> -thumbipeach

**Author's Note:**

> Kfshsbsjsjsksmssksjsosjssj
> 
> Once again thank you to intheKnickofTime and Ex_Nihilo for putting up with my late night spicy bullshit I love you both. Here have this again:
> 
> Wanted to see how far I could go without full on clowning myself. Hope I still managed to keep this somewhat tasteful,,,,but if not I completely understand and I will be retreating to my jail cell accordingly.
> 
> There’s another part to this I might post it if I get enough incentive
> 
> Comments/kudos are my light, my joy, my sky <3 
> 
> -thumbipeach


End file.
